


Imprimatur

by Mosca



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, real estate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 08:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mosca/pseuds/Mosca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rory and Paris are sharing a room now, so they really ought to rent out the spare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imprimatur

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this for jae_w for the 2006 Femslash Ficathon and posted it to the community in April 2006. Thanks to Sandyk for the beta and Distraction for listening.

This is the drawer with the takeout menus in it. You'd be surprised at the bounty of culinary options available in New Haven. New Haven, Connecticut, one of the top ten poorest cities in the United States, despite being located in the most affluent state in the union, per capita, and housing one of the top ten most prestigious universities in America. Make of that what you will. Note the Post-it flags on the corners of the menus, which indicate cuisine and, by their color, how desperate one would have to be in order to buy a meal from the establishment in question. Green flags mean the food's pretty good; red indicates multiple food safety violations. Do not question the Post-it flags. They are the result of six semesters of focused inquiry and statistical analysis. Even Rory concurs, and it is well known that she will eat nearly anything if it is sufficiently smothered in cheese.

Moving in a clockwise direction around the kitchen, you will notice the flatware drawer. Observe that the big spoons, unsuitable for cereal, have a divider section of their own. This drawer also contains the melon baller. When Rory came home from Target with it, she explained that a house was not a home without a melon baller. I argued that we don't live in a house, but in a walk-up apartment in one of the worst neighborhoods in New Haven, but she said that makes the melon baller that much more important. Nonetheless, the astute and civilized observer must agree that the melon baller does not belong in the same drawer as the chef's knife, the slotted spatula, or the pasta spoon. Dainty and superfluous and of course unused, it nestles among the chopsticks and hot sauce packets. But Rory was right: the comfort of our home would be diminished by its absence.

This probably hasn't been a useful tour so far. I think that might be unavoidable, under the circumstances. It's hard to express, when you've lived somewhere for a while, when you've built memories and relationships and a _life_ in it -- it's hard to discern what the important things and the interesting things are. And you end up talking about melon ballers.

So the stove works, and only one of the burners is slanted beyond the point of utility. The oven is big enough to roast a Thanksgiving turkey, not that anyone has tried. Sink, microwave, fridge. Post-it flags in the fridge, too, although food-wise, we're on a slow decline towards the honor system and Marxism. Did I mention that Rory will eat anything if there's cheese on top of it? When I say lock up your microwaveable enchiladas and your baked ziti, I say it with utmost urgency. The woman has a hollow leg, and the Yale Daily News takes a lot out of her.

Moving right along. This is the living room. We do a lot of our studying in here, although if someone wants to watch TV, we try to be respectful. The sofa is not a place for your friends to "crash." Rory and I both take our work seriously, and now that we share a room, our personal space is at a premium. If Rory is slogging her way through Russian formalism while I'm studying for my biochemistry midterm, things get ugly real fast if we're crammed together too tightly. My major? I'm pre-med. Rory? Journalism, although I think she's minoring in some other thing, philosophy or history, one of those fuzzy social science majors that won't land you a job anywhere. It's splitting hairs. Rory's the kind of person who would major in mastering all worldly knowledge if Faustian Studies were offered as an interdisciplinary major at Yale. Not that she's demonic or anything. Rory's the nicest person you'll ever meet. Why am I giving you the tour, then? Oh, she's in class now. You know how it goes.

Yeah, cable and wireless internet. Sure, we can include it in the rent.

And this will be your bedroom. It's not that big, but there's space. Not much to see out the window. It lets the air in, if you don't mind the smell of rotting garbage and fryer grease. I don't know where the fryer grease comes from, now that you ask. Every once in a while, it smells like burning maple syrup, and that's when we open all the windows. Because it's _weird_. But magical. Some things are just magical, and you don't question them, you just open all the windows and sit back, because it's going to be fryer grease again tomorrow.

You think I'm weird. Well, let me tell you something, since you're only a sophomore. Normal doesn't get you far in the world. Middle management at best. And okay, weird we may be, but we're quiet and the rent is cheap, and we may be in the midst of our lesbian experimentation phase, but neither of us drinks enough that we're likely to grope you in your sleep. Try to beat that deal with a stick, sister. I'll tell you now, it can't be done, not in the illustrious city of New Haven, and especially not if you wait until the start of the fall semester.

You'll take it? I'm so glad. It's amazing how many undesirables go to Yale. I suspect some of them are lying -- I bet they go to Southern. I _bet_ that's what it is. Really? You used to go out with a guy who went to Southern? And he's still stalking you? Well, that just confirms it. The entire institution is not to be trusted. Yeah. I think we'll get along fine.

Sure, you can ask a personal question. We're going to be in each other's personal space all the time, so we might as well get to know each other. How did we meet? High school. It's been a long time coming. It's enough to make me believe in fate, and I spent _several_ years as a practicing nihilist. Some people, they come into your life and they never leave, like they can't, like they're tethered to you, like you need each other even though you don't know why yet. Yeah, I think Vonnegut _did_ write about that, actually. And he might have intended it as satire, but I think it might be truer than he was willing to account for. You too? Well, I hope it wasn't that guy from Southern. It would be like punishment to be tethered to a Southern grad.

Some other time? Okay, well, I guess we'll have the chance, since we'll be living together. No, I'm interested, I genuinely am. I have a good feeling about this whole arrangement. I really do.


End file.
